Death and the Devil: A Novel

by Frank Schätzing

  She placed her index finger under his chin and turned his head back to face her. “And?”

  “And nothing. I’m stuck like a rat in a trap and I don’t want to pull you in, too. Believe me, I really did want to see you again—”

  “I should hope so, too.”

  “—but I might be putting your life in danger. That monster chased me all around Cologne last night. I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

  “Monster?” The line between her brows had reappeared.

  “The murderer.”

  “But you escaped?”

  “Yes. For the moment.”

  “Good. Then there’s nothing to worry about. If he had found you again, you’d presumably be dead as mutton by now.” She ran her fingers through his hair, then tugged it so hard he couldn’t repress a cry of pain. “But from what I hear, you’re alive.”

  She let go, jumped up, and went out of the room. Creaking, rustling noises came from the other side of the door. “And who was it you saw being murdered that makes them so keen to get rid of you as well?”

  “Not so loud!” Jacob rolled his eyes and ran over to where she was. The room at the rear appeared to be a mixture of kitchen and ground-level storeroom. She had opened a large chest and was rummaging around among material and other bits and pieces. He slumped against the door frame, then gave a loud groan. His shoulder! Richmodis gave him a brief glance, then returned to the tangle of cloth.

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “The murderer’s in this chest listening to every word we say.”

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t want someone else to get killed.”

  “Here, put these on.” She threw him a tan coat and a cap with earmuffs. “If you won’t talk about it, we’ll have to do something. What are you waiting for?”

  Jacob looked at the clothes. They were good, very good, well made from excellent cloth. He’d never worn anything like them in his life.

  Richmodis clapped her hands. “What is it then? Does my lord require to be dressed?”

  Jacob quickly put on the coat and pulled the cap so far down that not a red hair was to be seen. Richmodis strutted around, giving a pull here and a tug there, then stepped back, with a satisfied look on her face. Jacob felt stiff and hampered. He would have felt more at ease in the old, used coat.

  “And now?”

  “Now? We’re going for a walk.”

  “Where?”

  “To see my uncle. He’d better have a look at that shoulder and give you something decent to drink. Then you can tell him your story. If you manage to convince him, he’ll do everything he can to help you. He likes a little spice in his scholarly existence now and then. If not, he’ll throw you out on your backside. Without the hat and coat.”

  Jacob couldn’t think of anything to say. They went out and crossed the stream. He turned around to see if anyone was watching, at which she gave him an irritated nudge and hurried him on. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “They’ll stare anyway.”

  “And where does your uncle live?” asked Jacob, neatly avoiding a piglet that ran squealing between his legs.

  “I told you. He’s dean of St. Mary Magdalene’s.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Never heard of it, you heathen?”

  “Not heathen, not long in Cologne, that’s all.”

  “Mary Magdalene’s is opposite St. Severin’s. Rather small, I have to admit. My uncle lives three doors along. That’s where he has his study, too.”

  “There’s another thing, Richmodis—”

  “Mmm?”

  “These clothes—”

  “Are my father’s, that’s right.”

  Oh, dear!

  “Was he angry with you about the other things you gave me?”

  “You bet he was! He was furious. He chased me all around the house crying blue murder. The neighbors came to see what was up.”

  “Christ! A good thing he wasn’t there today.”

  “A good thing indeed.”

  They passed through the old Roman gate into Severinstraße, which ran straight toward the city wall. It was no mean street. Churches and chapels, monasteries and convents jostled each other for position, not to mention solid patrician houses and inviting inns. Catering to every need, so to speak.

  Richmodis was striding out.

  “Tell me, fairest nose in the West,” he said after a while, “where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  She stopped and looked at him as if that was the silliest question she had ever heard.

  “Where would he be? At my uncle’s.”

  A MORNING WALK

  Matthias reached the Franciscan monastery punctually at seven. He had to look twice before he recognized Urquhart. The murderer was wearing a black monk’s habit with the hood drawn down over his face and his head bowed. He looked as if he were immersed in his devotions.

  Matthias walked over to him casually, stopping beside him as if by chance. “Why the disguise?”

  “It seemed a good idea for you to accompany one of the good friars on his morning walk,” he said. “Yesterday you were not very keen for us to be seen together. You may be right.”

  “That’s perhaps going a little too far,” Matthias countered. “After all, no one knows who—”

  “Not here. Follow me.”

  With measured tread the two men walked out and around the corner into one of the city’s liveliest streets. It was full of workshops and rang with the sound of hammering, planing, and tapping, mingled with the rumble of carts, the stamp and roar of oxen, with barks, shouts, and the grunt of pigs, constantly interrupted by the bells from the countless churches and chapels. They were passing the harness makers. Matthias had commissioned a saddle that still wasn’t finished even though he had laid out so much money that he was contemplating a complaint to the guild.

  They strolled past open workshops, splendid town houses, and the Münster Inn, which Daniel was frequenting more and more, much to the annoyance of the family. Then a mansion with extensive grounds.

  “Your friend,” mocked Matthias.

  “Friend?”

  “The house of the count of Jülich.”

  “William is not my friend,” said Urquhart in bored tones. “I served him for a while and he benefited from it. Now I am serving you.”

  “And not without benefit,” said Matthias with a patronizing smile. He took a pear out of his coat pocket and bit into it heartily. “Gerhard is dead. Everyone is talking about an accident. Your witnesses were good.”

  “Two of my witnesses were good.”

  “But there were only two. Or am I wrong?”

  “There were three.”

  “There were?” Matthias stroked his lips. “I must be getting old. But three is better, of course.”

  “It is not. The third was not part of the plan.”

  Matthias stared at the marks of his teeth in the pear. “Tell me.”

  “There was a thief,” explained Urquhart. “Presumably stealing the archbishop’s fruit. He saw me push Gerhard off the scaffolding. Too stupid. I had no idea he was stuck in that tree, until he fell out. Presumably from sheer fright.” He sucked the air in through his teeth contemptuously.

  “What now?” exclaimed Matthias, somewhat horrified.

  “Keep your voice down. We have a witness who can tell the good citizens of Cologne the opposite. That Gerhard did not slip.”

  “Who’s going to believe a beggar, a thief?”

  “No one, I should imagine.” Urquhart stopped. His eyes glinted at Matthias from under the hood. “But do you want to take the chance?”

  “What do you mean, me?” spluttered Matthias. “It’s your fault.”

  “No.” Urquhart’s rejoinder was calm. “You can’t know every bird roosting in the branches. Not even I can. But don’t start complaining too soon. There’s more. It is possible—though I wouldn’t swear to it—that Gerhard said something to the man.”

  “What? I though
t Gerhard was dead! This is getting more and more confusing.”

  Urquhart gave a soft smile. “He died. That is not the same as being dead. Dying men can change their wills or curse God, all in the last moment before they pass away. An architect in his death throes, for example, might well mention your name.”

  Matthias grasped Urquhart’s arm and stood blocking his way. “I do not find that funny,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you catch the bird?”

  “I did attempt to.” Urquhart walked on and Matthias had to get out of his way quickly. Furious, he hurled the remains of his pear at a house door and continued on his walk with his presumed spiritual adviser.

  “And what was the result of your—attempt?”

  “At some point or other I lost track of him.”

  “Then he’s probably been telling his story all over the place.” Matthias groaned. “Half of Cologne will have heard it by now.”

  “Yes, he did tell some. They’re dead.”

  “What?” Matthias thought he must have misheard. They hadn’t yet reached the pan makers, so the ringing in his ears couldn’t be coming from their constant hammering.

  Urquhart shrugged his shoulders. “I did what was necessary.”

  “Wait.” Matthias tried to recover his composure. “You mean you’ve killed more people?”

  “Of course.”

  “Saints preserve us!”

  “Leave the saints out of this,” said Urquhart. “What does it matter if I gave Morart a few companions on his road to hell? If I understand you right, you’re more interested in the success of your plan than the welfare of your fellow citizens.”

  He went over to a stall selling smoked honey slices and sweet cakes with nuts. There was an appetizing smell. A coin changed hands. Urquhart started chewing and offered Matthias a piece.

  “Like some?”

  “No, goddammit.”

  They walked along in silence. The street was getting crowded with people buying and selling, checking goods, haggling with embroiderers, or simply going about their business. A gang of squealing children came running from the area that echoed with the hammering of the smiths and pan makers. It was one of their favorite games to ask the men, who were all half deaf from the ear-splitting racket, the time, then run away before the inevitable hammer came flying after them.

  “You don’t need to worry,” said Urquhart.

  “I don’t need to worry!” Matthias gave an angry laugh. “There’s someone running around the town who could ruin everything and you’re calmly eating cake!”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “I need a few men. Naturally I wouldn’t bother you with this if it weren’t so urgent, but I haven’t time to go looking for them myself, as I did for the witnesses. Give me three or four of your servants, the fastest, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.”

  “God damn you! Do you at least know who you’re looking for?”

  “Yes,” said Urquhart, stuffing the last piece of cake into his mouth. It made Matthias feel sick just to watch him.

  “And? What’s he called? What does he look like? Well?”

  Urquhart wiped the crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “Short, slim, red hair. Fiery red. Name of Jacob.”

  Matthias stopped in his tracks, thunderstruck. The ground seemed to tremble under his feet. “Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered.

  In a flash Urquhart’s casual air had given way to alert concentration. “Why?”

  “Why?” Matthias shook his head. “Because—no, it’s just not possible!—because less than an hour ago I gave this Jacob a guilder.”

  Urquhart’s bushy brows contracted. Now he was the one to be flabbergasted. “You did what?” he asked softly.

  “One guilder. Jacob the Fox. He was going through strange contortions outside our house in Rheingasse. It almost looked as if he were trying to—trying to cover up his hair.”

  Of course. What else. It was all so obvious.

  “Jacob the Fox,” muttered his companion. “A fox indeed.”

  “And like an ass, I gave him a guilder.”

  “And now you’re getting your just reward,” said Urquhart with a malicious sneer.

  For one dreadful moment Matthias Overstolz, nephew of the head of one of the richest and most powerful of the noble houses and a man of wealth and influence himself, felt wretched and impotent. Then his fury boiled up. Enough of this wailing and gnashing of teeth; it was time to act.

  “Let’s get the men,” he said, turning back. “I’ll give you a dozen of my servants. I’ll see if I can find a few soldiers as well. We’ll tell them who this Fox is—what he is, a thief in whose capture the Overstolz family has a keen interest.”

  “I will have to speak to them,” said Urquhart.

  “Is that unavoidable?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s no problem with the servants. In your habit I can take you into the house. Behave like a real monk, a friend of the family. We were talking about bringing a thief to his God-ordained punishment and you, in your wisdom, had an idea about how it might be done.”

  Urquhart nodded. “And what is this thief supposed to have stolen?”

  Matthias thought. Then he had an idea. An amusing idea. He gave a grim smile. “Let’s say he stole some money from me. Yes, that’ll do. He stole some money. A gold guilder.”

  THE PHYSICIAN

  St. Mary Magdalene’s was, indeed, not a particularly impressive example of ecclesiastical architecture. It even looked somewhat dilapidated. The priests, canons, and suffragans of the city complained often enough that they could not manage on their tithes, so where should they find money for the upkeep of buildings? That was an exaggeration, at least to the extent that, thanks to substantial donations from tradesmen, merchants, and patricians, the big churches were resplendent and there was, after all, sufficient money for a new cathedral. Small parish churches like St. Mary Magdalene’s, however, were dependent on their own congregation and funds were naturally not so abundant.

  St. Mary Magdalene’s looked all the more shabby as it stood opposite St. Severin’s, whose imposing stone spire made it clear where God would spend the night if He should happen to be in the district.

  Modest as it was, however, the little church was a feast for the eyes compared with the box where Richmodis’s uncle lived. It was one of a row of a dozen or so crooked little houses that looked like a line of drunks about to collapse. Her father and uncle, Richmodis told Jacob, would swear blind the houses all stood as upright as the emperor’s bodyguard, but that was an optical illusion resulting from the fact that as often as not they were inclined at a similar angle to their architectural environment themselves.

  While Jacob was trying to puzzle this out, Richmodis knocked at the door.

  “No one at home again?” She strode in. Jacob followed somewhat reluctantly, wishing he wasn’t decked out in her father’s clothes. If the old man was here, he was in for a hard time.

  All there was in the downstairs room, however, was a gray cat. They looked around the back room and in the tiny yard, then went back inside. Richmodis called out a few times, went up to the first floor and then to the attic. She was soon back with a knowing smile on her face.

  “Found him?” asked Jacob.

  “No. But my father’s coat is here, therefore so is my father. And where the one is, the other won’t be far away.”

  She pulled Jacob out into the yard and pointed at a wooden hatch with a rusty ring attached. “What do you think that might be?”

  “A cellar?” Jacob conjectured.

  “Oh, no. In normal houses there might be a cellar under that. Here it leads straight down to hell. Watch.”

  She bent down, grasped the ring, and pulled up the hatch. Steep, slippery steps led down. Together with a gust of stale air came some angry words.

  “—that in the future I refuse to associate with a man who drinks other people’s piss!”

  “But I don’t, you
misbegotten lump,” another voice replied. “I’m tasting the urine, something quite different from drinking. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Piss is still piss.”

  “Not piss, urine, you piece of excrement. A tiny drop to tell me whether the patient has diabetes mellitus. I can taste it, here, on the tip of my tongue, d’you see? Here.”

  “Yeuch. Take that yellow pig’s tongue out of my sight.”

  “Oh? A yellow tongue, you say? Then how do you explain that this pig’s tongue has a larger and more learned vocabulary than your whore-mongering mind could get together in a hundred years?”

  “I’m no whoremonger. But what I do know is that last St. David’s Day you went to that house in Schemmergasse and sent for those two silk-spinner girls. Sixteen tuns of wine you drank, you and your herd of unwashed students.”

  “That is not true.”

  “Oh, yes, it is true. And the way you all lay with the women, I’m surprised to find you still fit and well. One would have thought your instrument of pleasure ought to have rotted and dropped off long ago.”

  “What would you know about instruments of pleasure, you bloated tub of dye? You can’t even distinguish between a fart and a sigh.”

  “Between wine and piss I can.”

  “Ha! Prove it. As long as someone doesn’t tell you it’s wine—talking of which, shall we have another one?”

  “Why not? Let’s have another one.”

  “What’s all that?” asked a bewildered Jacob.

  Richmodis stared grimly down at the candlelit cellar. “That? That’s my father and uncle.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “They call it learned disputations, though the only thing in dispute is who can finish his glass quickest.”

  “Do they do it often?”

  “Whenever they can find a suitable topic.” Richmodis sighed. “Come on, we’d better go down and join them. They’d have difficulty getting up the steps.”

  “But it’s early!” exclaimed Jacob incredulously.

  She gave him a scornful look. “So what? I just thank the Holy Apostles they don’t drink in their sleep.”

  Shaking his head, Jacob followed her, taking care not to slip on the greasy steps. At the bottom they found themselves in something that was more like a cave than a cellar, though surprisingly spacious. What was immediately obvious was that it was a well-filled wine store. There was a constant drip of moisture from the ceiling and a slightly foul smell from the latrine, which Jacob had noticed next to the cellar. “Dungeon” was the word that occurred to Jacob, though one he would not have minded being locked up in.